


The Night Before

by kutikue



Series: StrifeHart Fluff [43]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Bad Parenting, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Gift Fic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Letoasai, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 19:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21379630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutikue/pseuds/kutikue
Summary: Set before LetoaSai's 'It's Only Two More', The night before Vanitas and Ventus enter the foster care system.  Gift fic for LetoaSai.
Relationships: Vanitas & Ventus (Kingdom Hearts)
Series: StrifeHart Fluff [43]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1108581
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	The Night Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LetoaSai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetoaSai/gifts).
  * Inspired by [It's only two more](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20265556) by [LetoaSai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetoaSai/pseuds/LetoaSai). 

> I seriously stressed myself out writting the spaghetti scene in this. It's loosly based off of my own personal experience. Felt good to work through it, but dang, I kind of forgot about it until I decided on spaghetti and then it all flodded back in so I decided why not.

The yelling from their mother in the next room was elevating into screaming again. It hadn’t really stopped for the entirety of the day. The occasional bout of things being thrown or breaking; or one or the other of their parents storming out of the house briefly for a ‘smoke break’ had been the only reprieve Ventus and Vanitas had had for hours now. The two boys were huddled quietly in their room with the lights off, holding onto each other as they hoped the fight wouldn’t involve them tonight.

Normally, with one of them fresh out of the hospital they wouldn’t have to worry. Ventus’ arm was still in a brace, but some of the teachers at school had doubted their story, to say nothing of the staff at the hospital. Vanitas wished his brother hadn’t gotten in the way. At least at the school, they never seemed to be surprised when the angrier of the twins got himself into trouble. They hadn’t given a second glance at the bruises on  _ his  _ face.

The two boys flinched as something thudded into the wall above them, a small noise leaving one of them as the volume from their parents notched up another level. If they kept this up, the neighbors might call the cops again. Ventus started to cry softly, his braced hand coming up to wipe tears away while the other kept a tight grip on his twins. “I wish they’d just stop already. Aren't they tired of fighting?”

Vanitas wrapped his other arm around his older twins and pulled him closer, trying desperately to comfort him as his stomach knotted in discomfort. He was so so  _ so  _ angry at their parents. Angry and scared. And sad. Things had been getting steadily worse lately, and he wasn’t sure how much more they could take. No matter how hard they tried to be good for their mother, she kept punishing them with more and more often. And even though they weren't sick, the doctors kept getting called over to the house, injecting them with needles that always made him feel funny, nurses too rough ‘examining’ him and his brother, passing them around like- “Vani?”

Ven’s pale tear-streaked face came into sudden focus as Vanitas was forcibly snapped out of the beginning of an anxiety-attack by his brother’s own fear. “Sorry Ven. I’m just really tired. They’ll probably stop fighting soon, they have to be getting tired too.” It was probably a lie, but he wasn’t sure which one of them it was meant for. Probably both of them. Oftentimes while clutching each other in the dark, trying to hide from their parent’s anger and violence, lies like that were all they had for each other.

Two hours later they had migrated to the inside of the closet, shutting the door in an attempt to better block out the noise. Vanitas had shoved an old suitcase and some now too-small shoes aside so that he could sit in the far corner with his back to the wall. His brother was firmly clutched against his chest with his uninjured hand held loosely at Vanitas’ side while Vanitas held Ven’s head to his chest with a hand over his brother’s ear, trying to drown out the noise with his own heartbeat. Ventus wasn’t sleeping well, but it was something. In a few hours they would trade places if they fighting still hadn’t stopped, some sleep was better than none when school was a factor, and the last thing either of them wanted was to get into more trouble for being ‘discipline problems’ for being caught sleeping in class.

Ven whimpered in his sleep lightly, prompting Vanitas to pull his brother closer, his knees raising as if to create a wall to defend his sleeping form. Ven opened one eye, muttering a sleepy “Vani?”, before closing it and seeming to go back to sleep. Vanitas sighed, carding one hand through Ven’s hair as despair washed through his body. How were they supposed to get through eight more years of this? Surviving to ten felt like an accomplishment sometimes, but other times it just felt like they had so much further to go.

Running away was tempting, but when they had talked about it seriously, they had been forced to agree that they were too young. The only skills they had were ones they weren't willing to use to live on the streets, getting pimped out was half the reason they wanted to leave home. There was also the fear of getting caught. Would they just be sent back here? What would their parents do to them? Would they get put in foster care instead? Placed with a relative? Seperated?

No, they had to wait. At least a few more years, at least until they could make a real go of it. Once they were old enough to work under the table, or look old enough for a fake I.D to be passable, then they would run. As far as they could, and never look back, never have to worry about being separated again, about being used and beaten and  _ hungry _ .

Ven’s stomach was growling too. Vanitas wasn’t sure exactly when they had eaten last, maybe breakfast-ish? He’d gotten his head bashed into the table for trying to get food earlier, even though they had been waiting and missed several meals over the last few days. Ventus was  _ hurt _ , he needed to make sure his brother got something to eat or he might actually get sick, and the last thing he needed right now was some awful doctor hurting him more while he only had one arm he could use.

The yelling had died down quite a bit from earlier. Maybe their parents had gone on another smoke break, or to their own room? Maybe he could sneak them some dinner, or at least a snack? Carefully crawling out from underneath his sleepy brother with a muttered excuse of “Bathroom.”, Vanitas crept across the darkened bedroom to the door, easing it open with the skill only fear can teach a child. The hallway was clear, and since the bathroom was actually next to the kitchen, he might be able to use that excuse if he got caught heading out. As long as he was caught  _ before  _ he reached the kitchen.

Fear made his palms sweaty, lodged a stone in his throat and weighed his stomach down. He could do this. For Ven.

Every step seemed to echo loudly in his head. The harsh lights seemed to draw extra attention to his black hair and shirt, screaming for someone to notice his presence, that he wasn’t supposed to be here. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was going to be in so much trouble if he got caught.

In the kitchen now. He didn’t dare look into the next room. He knew his parents had to be there, arguing. His ringing ears couldn’t hear their words, he couldn’t focus on anything other then his next step, his next breath, his next action or he would lose his nerve. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t seen him.

Vanitas hadn’t really planned on making it this far, and now he was almost paralyzed in fear at the realization that he had no idea what to do next. The idea of getting food had been so important that he had completely overlooked  _ preparing _ that food. There was no way he could just make a sandwich or microwave something. Could he climb up on the counter and grab something, a few granola bars or pop tarts, from the cabinet without making enough noise to give himself away?

Tip-toe tip-toe, a fingernail into the failing seal of the refrigerator so it doesn’t make a creak as it opens, and he could almost sigh with relief. Three day old burnt spaghetti, with a fork still inside of the container. Carefully, carefully. It’s sitting on the floor, and he’s managed to close the refrigerator door again.

Turning around, cold dread fills him down to his toes. Clammy sweat breaks out on every inch of skin, the idea of making the trek back filling Vanitas with a terror he wasn’t expecting. Making it this far without getting caught, just how far is he pushing his luck? He feels sick, tastes puke in the back of his throat, swallows his down reflexively. Throwing up is one of the things his mother hates most, and punishes most severely. It's how he got his first three broken bones. First concussion too.

The sweat makes his feet stick to the flooring a bit, and to his ears the noise is deafening. He doesn’t dare look up to where he’s sure his parents must be starting at him. Are they still fighting, or are they yelling at him now? The ringing in his ears is too loud for him to be sure of anything, his throat too tight for his quick breaths that almost want to be a scream to escape.

He’s nearly out of sight when he missteps.

The floor creaks. The ringing in his ears stops, and the silence is deafening. Without thinking, he side-steps, now half-in the bathroom, bowl of pilfered spaghetti on the counter and out of sight of the adults.

“Vanitas! What the hell are you doing up this late?” His mother’s voice, rough and angry. He steps back out, trying to maintain good posture and eye contact to somehow appease her impossible standard of being both well-behaved and not being defiant.

“I had to go to the bathroom…”

“You should have gone before you went to bed! Well? Don’t just stand there, hurry up and get your ass back in bed!”

Vanitas nodded, turning around and closing the bathroom door behind him. A moment later it seemed he was forgotten as the arguing resumed. Just to be safe, he counted to forty before flushing and washing his hands with soap. Poking his head out to look towards his parents was a dangeriously stupid move, but they were too busy fighting with each other to notice.

He didn’t breath again until he had his back pressed against his closed bedroom door, the metal bowl of spaghetti clutched to his chest as he slid to the floor, panting with relief.

“Vani! You idiot!” Ventus furiously whisper-shouted at him, weakly punching the black-haired boy in the shoulder. “What were you thinking?”

Vanitas smiled weakly, all too aware of how idiotic he had been, knowing how mad his twin must have been. “Dinner?”

They ended up hiding the evidence of their pilfered meal in the closet, deciding to worry about it later. They’d nearly licked the bowl clean eating their fill, feeling much better with something finally in their stomachs.

“That was so stupid of you Vani. What if you’d gotten caught?”

“But I didn’t.” He really didn’t want to think about it.

“Promise you won’t do that again.” Ven’s hand ghosted over Vanitas’ cheek, fingers gently touching the worst of the bruising. Vanitas frowned, his hand coming up to touch Ventus’ busted arm.

“Only if you promise not to get in the way next time.” Ven’s eyes went wide, shock and disbelief warring on his young face.

“W-what are you-”

“I can take it. So...so don’t take the blame for me, just tell them it’s my fault. It’s worse when they hurt you.” Ven’s hand moved down, forcing his brother’s chin up for eye contact.

“You think it’s not the same for me? I can’t just-”

Vanitas broke eye contact first, looking at his brother’s broken arm. Ventus looked too, noticeably uncomfortable as they both refused to verbally acknowledge that Vanitas’ arm probably wouldn’t have broken like Ventus’ did. That the younger of the twins was tougher, could take the hits better.

“...I won’t let them hurt you.”

The two of them clung to each other in the dark, laying in a shared bed despite each having their own. The noises of their parents fighting was easier to ignore now, the combined magic of a stolen dinner, refused promises and uncomfortable truths dimming it into semi-familiar background noise. The two boys drifted off to sleep, not knowing it would be their last night sleeping in their childhood home, or what horror would unfold in front of them in the morning, and that ten years of waiting was about to be over.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bit of mild projection here. Former foster care kid here, I got seperated from my own sibling(s) several times. Tried to stay true to the origional author's story outside, but some of it leaked in and it felt right so I left it.


End file.
